


Concerning You

by pudgy puk (deumion)



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Bardic Nonsense, Bickering, First Times, Kink Meme, M/M, Pining, Sensitive Ears, Size Difference, Ye Olde Dental Care, dumb idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-25
Updated: 2018-12-25
Packaged: 2019-09-26 22:20:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17150132
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/deumion/pseuds/pudgy%20puk
Summary: In which Sanson experiences every possible human emotion concerning handsome bards within the span of a day.(Kinkmeme fill)





	Concerning You

**Author's Note:**

> IT CRISMAS
> 
> MERR CRISMAS

After five moons, Sanson Smyth had almost finished preparing himself for heartbreak. He’d rehearsed what he’d say, daydreamed what he’d do, and imagined how the stages of grief might go, when Guydelot at last broke his heart—for he was a bard, wasn’t he? A traditional and studied one, at that, devoted to the craft in a way that Sanson really and truly and honestly admired, even though he knew how all those songs and ballads ended. Primroses and passion and promises, oh certainly, that would always be how they began, beautiful and beguiling until suddenly your lover’s a voidsent and your father’s hung himself for shame while your wee babes cry of starvation and you’ve sunk to your death in the waters what’ll never more run clear, oh hey hey ho, me bonny-o.

…Not that Sanson actually thought it’d be a fatal affair. Nor, either, that he’d so much as given Guydelot a single kiss. He just _knew_ it’d break his heart to fall in anything so much as resembling love with that bard, as sure as he knew he’d done it complete, and moons ago at that.

It must have been somewhere in Coerthas that it started, in the cold snow and rough stone of Falcon’s Nest, which was (Sanson thought) an odd place to fall in love, and like as not it explained how long it took him to realize. It had been on their first assignment together, back when (Sanson thought) Guydelot was feckless and irresponsible and would not hesitate to chase any skirts or hose or long-eared loveliness in any form. And had he been wrong? Even today, he still wasn’t sure, though remembering how he acted brought a blush to his face.

There was a pub in Falcon’s Nest—of course there was, and the both of them had their dinner there each night, there being no real alternative outside of military mess. And while Sanson didn’t really object to that sort of fare or accommodations, Guydelot very much did and preferred a place that’d let him sing and play his harp and charm his way out of paying full price for his meal (but somehow, this property never transferred over to Sanson and his dinner). It was such an accursed thing, that man’s charm. Sanson found he couldn’t take his attention off him—off his hands, as he played, off his eyes, as he told his tales, off his mouth, as he sang. Which, of course, in the sort of climate where one could be charged a premium for hot soup instead of gone chilled, was a damned frustration. But at least the beer didn’t go warm if he neglected it a bit, and the head might hide his blushing.

…At Guydelot’s audacious antics, mind, not the man himself, Sanson had believed. It was true that Guydelot was a flirt and Sanson worried tremendously that a rake used to the relative morality of the Shroud might land in real peril in Ishgard, if he followed his usual ways. And of course, of _course_ Sanson couldn’t just allow that. So of course, of _course_ , he’d headed off every instance he’d caught going somewhere …dangerous.

That he was _jealous_ didn’t cross his mind for weeks. What’s more, while Sanson would have loved to be able to say that it was his own grace and wisdom that made him first think so, it was nothing of the sort. Rather it had been a _heckler_ , of all things, that Guydelot had acquired in Tailfeather. While their journey with the Warrior of Light had kept them in the hunters’ camp, Guydelot whiled evenings and nights away playing his harp or flute, and the hunters—being frank, unbound by Ishgardian civility, and usually at least somewhat drunk—would opine on his songs. One hunter in particular, a pale elezen man with black hair and thick brows, took great joy in needling Guydelot’s performances. Guydelot took it in stride—or at least he seemed to, Sanson fretted that sooner or later the hunter would go too far and something regrettable would happen. And, well, it did—but not at all in the way Sanson had been expecting.

That night, all the camp had been drinking, Sanson and Guydelot included. The bard, of course, had played, and sang very loudly, while the officer had stayed on his bench and resolutely tried to steady his handwriting. The journal he was writing up for Commander Vorsaile had to be impeccable—but maybe he would have to settle for legible. Even if he hadn’t imbibed, the conversation and laughter was almost loud enough to drown out Guydelot’s music, more than loud enough to drive him directly to distraction—when the heckler raised his voice once again.

“Passion this, true love that!” He had a booming voice that he used to excellent effect, piercing the dull clamor around them. “Bard, tell me: Do you do more than sing and dance?”

Sanson froze.

Guydelot, as ever ready to retort, did not. “Perhaps! If you do more than drink!”

Sanson did not have any great lung-power or skill at projecting his voice; it was solely due to the sheer and shrill indignation that his “ _What!?!_ ” was heard by anyone more than a few fulms away.

The heckler and his friends had already been laughing at Guydelot’s acceptance (or possible calling of his bluff, Sanson would later reflect, when he was calmer and more inhibited); it grew to a roar when they heard Sanson. “I thought you were supposed to be ‘the Stiff’, not ‘the Shrill’!” A brilliant blush consumed all of Sanson’s face and began to spread down his neck. “Least that’s what _he_ said.”

Sanson shot Guydelot a furious, curious look, and was only slightly pleased (mostly betrayed) to see only a hit of a blush on his cheekbones. “What have you been saying about me?” he ground out.

Before Guydelot could come up with a suitably face-saving answer, though, his heckler continued “Anyroad, if he’s _that_ jealous, you can keep singin’ and dancin’. We’d never hear the end of it otherwise!” All the gathered hunters had good laugh at that, before dissolving back into drinking and chattering. And the next day, it seemed like the camp (and the bard) were pleased to forget the whole thing, but Sanson would always remember it as the first and only time he saw a heckler get the better of Guydelot.

Perhaps that was part of the fit of pique that had seen Guydelot storming off after their unfortunate encounter with Sylviel. Goodness knows where’d he be without the Warrior of Light and Mogta—even if Sanson _could_ have done _without_ his journal being stolen by the “helpful” moogle, the first one to realize that all of them were inhabiting some sort of lovelorn ballad. (Or at least if there was a better explanation for that embarrassing episode, Sanson didn’t know it).

But then, uncannily like the very same heroic ballads Guydelot liked to play and Sanson liked to unsuccessfully hide how much he enjoyed, he’d rejoined them just in the nick of time, and brought a happy ending to their journey—except that, unlike songs, life went on for Sanson to puzzle out in real-time, not long lazy evening-times, with a snack and some tea, or perhaps something stronger, spent dwelling on a song or two.

And he would have loved to have so spent this evening, but it was not to be. Joint exercises (the Order of the Twin Adder and the Gods Quiver) stretched until sundown, to test the power of the bardsong. So, given the circumstance, once they’d whistled and sang until the Twelveswood rang, it behooved him to drink at the Canopy with the rest of the units—for camaraderie and morale. At least Guydelot would be there.

A strange thing was that, since the conclusion of their journey, Guydelot more often became broody when drinking, when prior he had been a cheerful (if oft insufferable) companion at the bar. Sanson was slightly troubled by this, but tried to rationalize it as part of his growth as a bard—surely a bit of poetic gloom was an unavoidable part of the process.

So when Guydelot’d had a drink a drink, a drink but barely three, Sanson regarded it as a good sign that he still had his energy, engaged in spirited conversation with a few fellow Gods Quiver archers. The content he was not observant of, being engaged in his own matters enough—until Guydelot called out to him by name.

“Sanson!” Guydelot didn’t wait for him to respond before repeating “Saaaaansooooon!” in a remarkably clear (if silly) vibrato.

“Yes?” He closed his journal and tucked it safely into his coat pocket (it would _not_ do to have a repeat of the Mogta incident).

“I’m the only bard for you!” Guydelot declared, arms spread wide. “Right?”

Sanson, for a moment, had no words. He knew what Guydelot had to have meant—that he was Sanson’s first choice of a bard to accompany his unit of lancers on patrol or into combat—but oh, the _images_ that phrase conjured in his imagination, passionate and sensual and _true_ and _heartbreaking_ …

“Yes,” Sanson said finally, but he was looking away.

“Really?” asked Guydelot, as behind him his fellow Quivermen and -women clapped for his theatrical wounded expression. “D’you mean it?”

Oh, more than he knew, Sanson thought, though he had the sense, sobriety, and self-control not to say it aloud. Instead, he tried to play along with Guydelot’s little game. “As I live and breathe, Guydelot, I swear I’ll be true,” he said, with only a little shy stutter, mimicking the bard’s expressive gestures.

“To me?” Guydelot’s voice was less projected, with more throat and breath than before, and he swayed on his feet slightly. “On what d’you swear?”

The bard was taking this awfully seriously, Sanson thought, and for a moment wondered if he was about to take another turn into broodiness. Well, perhaps if he assuaged his fears… “On my lance, my love, my liege-lord and lady alike.” The words weren’t his, but a song he hadn’t the skill to sing—at least he could recite it. A shame it was only funning in the pub—a shame he was only talking about deployment and mixed unit tactics—a shame—

Then Guydelot kissed him.

For a second that stretched into an hour, everything was still. Sanson was frozen still, face upturned to Guydelot bent low, holding onto him by his shirt. He wasn’t kissing back. Should he be kissing back? Was this just—was Guydelot playing? Had he let the drink go to his head and bypass his better judgment? He must have, if—if he thought this kind of thing was at all something fit to fool around with. And so, when that second ended and all the motion and sound and color flooded back to him, when Guydelot pulled away, the expression on Sanson’s face was hurt.

“You’re not kissing back,” Guydelot said, face falling, and somewhere in the back of his mind Sanson realized he might have been in error.

“I—” Sanson stared up at Guydelot, unable to decide what he should say next—’that’s not funny’? or ‘we’re in public?’ or ‘again?’ “Sorry,” he breathed out, and honestly, considering the sheer level of _noise_ coming from all their comrades-in-arms, it’d be a miracle if Guydelot heard him.

Guydelot still hadn’t moved, his face was still too close to Sanson’s and his hands still clutched his shirt. He was breathing like he’d been doing something far more strenuous than joking and kissing, and his breath smelled like perry, and if Sanson wasn’t hopelessly in love with this infuriating man it wouldn’t have seemed itself intoxicating. Was Guydelot going to kiss him again? Sanson held his breath.

But then nothing touched his lips, but Guydelot slumped forward, loosening his grip on his collar to hold his shoulders like Sanson was the only thing keeping him steady (and Sanson had to square his shoulders and stance to keep from staggering; even slender elezen were still tall enough to be _heavy_ ). Guydelot groaned in a way suggestive not of romance but of nausea, and with a jolt of something approaching panic Sanson pushed the drunken bard, turned him so that his arm was across his shoulders and Sanson was supporting him without being _beneath_ him.

“Just take him home,” one of the archers at the bar called out to him. “Before he makes a bigger fool of himself!”

Because it was something useful to do—and Sanson the Stiff was very good at following instructions—he made an affirmative sort of grunt and started walking towards the door, still supporting Guydelot. To his gratitude, Guydelot apparently agreed with the archer and was staggering in the same direction.

…That is, until they got out of the Carline Canopy and up the little hill it was next to: Sanson steered them right, while Guydelot lurched leftwards.

“Hey—!” Sanson lunged for Guydelot, but fortunately it seemed the worst of that episode was past and he no longer needed help to stand. “Your barracks are that way!”

“Don’ wanna sleep in th’ barracks,” Guydelot grunted.

“…I’m not walking you all the way to Hyrstmill,” Sanson said, crossing his arms over his chest.

“Don’ wanna go _there_.” Before an exasperated Sanson could ask— “Take me t’your place.”

_Oh_.

A mix of emotions filled Sanson at those words, many contradictory, that he expressed by saying “Well… oh, very well!” and leading Guydelot onwards, one hand on the other’s back in case he needed steadying again. Much of the walk passed in something like silence—asides from things like “Watch your step” or “At least it’s not raining,” from Sanson (which Guydelot answered monosyllabically if at all), the bard seemed sometimes to mutter and mumble to himself. Sanson did his best not to listen to him—it felt vaguely like eavesdropping—until Guydelot began to chuckle and then to laugh loudly.

“What’s so funny?”

“You—” Guydelot said after a moment, looking very smug, “You’ve never taken another bard home, I bet!”

Sanson answered him with an eloquently baffled “What?”

Somehow that was enough for Guydelot, who pumped his fist in the air (and lurched to the side to keep his balance). “Knew it!”

This was… such a strange evening. Guydelot was right—but, Sanson wondered, if he even knew just _how_ right he was. Sanson hadn’t taken a bard home—because he hadn’t taken _anyone_ home, unless you were counting his grandma on Sundays, which Sanson certainly wasn’t. And he’d thought about this detail quite a bit since meeting Guydelot—previously, it had seemed inconsequential, but now it weighed on his mind, some days (and some ways) unbearable, but others pleasant to ponder. But that _Guydelot_ had been thinking about who he, Sanson, was or was not taking home…

Again, it’d be a lie to say that Sanson hadn’t considered that possibility before. He was perfectly aware, for one, that he wasn’t the first to find Guydelot attractive (despite his best efforts) and that he’d gone to bed (and more, Sanson was sure) with others before. It was probably required to keep carrying a bard’s job crystal, besides. So—well, so Sanson had in fact considered Guydelot’s reaction to Sanson’s lack of experience numerous times before, yet somehow none of them had been anything like it actually happening in front of Sanson’s eyes.

“Look—look, let’s just get home, we’re almost there,” was how he found himself reacting to its actual occurrence, blushing and not quite able to meet Guydelot’s eyes, and all in all Sanson was disappointed in himself. It had been much better—he had been much smoother and cleverer—when it was only his imagination.

“All right,” Guydelot said, drawing it out in (what Sanson thought was) a very self-satisfied way, but he had no objection to the instruction, and cooperated with Sanson’s attempt to get him and his gangling limbs up the stairs without any casualties.

“There,” Sanson said as he finally managed to unlock his front door (his hands had been shakier than normal). “Come inside.”

“So clean,” Guydelot marveled as he stepped inside, ducking his head a little. “S’like an inn room.”

What kind of mess was Guydelot used to, if this was his reaction to a properly ordered apartment? Sanson shuddered to imagine it. “Yes, well. Anyroad. I suppose you’ll be taking the bed—that’s the end of the hall, on the left.” It was the gentlemanly thing to do, so of course Sanson would do it, no matter how much more comforting he thought it’d be to spend this particular night in his own bed.

“Right,” Guydelot said, and—without even so much as a thank you!—staggered across the front room to the hallway. Rather put-out, Sanson made a point of scraping his shoes exceptionally thoroughly on the doormat before taking them off. As he was midway through doing so, though, Guydelot poked his head back into the front room. “You’re not coming?”

_Oh._ Sanson froze, shoelace half-untied. He hadn’t—no, that was a lie, he _had_ , he just hadn’t _seriously_ thought Guydelot would want to—that night… “I’m not,” Sanson heard himself say, and at least his discipline penetrated _that_ deeply. “I’ll sleep on this sofa.”

Guydelot’s face fell, for the second time that evening. “I’ll not take the bed, then—”

Sanson cut him off with a very firm “ _Yes_ , you will. You won’t fit here. _I_ barely fit.”

“But—”

“Just—go to bed, Guydelot,” Sanson sighed. “You’re drunk.”

“Mmmnn.” He sounded very displeased with this news. “I suppose I am. …Good night.”

“Good night,” Sanson replied, as Guydelot turned back down the hallway. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

He settled down into the sofa cushions, as stretched out as he could manage, his legs propped up on one sofa arm and his shoulders pushed against the other. It was _damned_ uncomfortable, but hopefully, Sanson thought, he was worn enough that he wouldn’t notice.

Sadly, it was not to be.

Although Guydelot had dropped off to sleep with almost insulting swiftness (judging by the snores), sleep was slow to find Sanson that night. As tired as he was, his situation captured his mind and his imagination in such a way that neither would calm enough to let him sleep. Stubbornly, silently, he laid with his eyes closed, perfectly still, and tried very hard to concentrate on his breathing and fall asleep. It wasn’t working. Instead, he was replaying the past few hours over and over, but with different outcomes—ones where he was more assertive, where he was more flirtatious, where he was a different Sanson and perhaps Guydelot was a different man, more sober, less inscrutable, somehow less insufferable (though this always fell apart if he thought more about how). Outcomes where he wasn’t sleeping on the sofa, where he was as drunk as Guydelot, without inhibition or worry or—

Some unconscious reflex made his leg jerk, and Sanson groaned from the frustration. That had seemed close to turning from a sad daydream to a pleasant dream-filled sleep, but—once again—it was simply not to be. He lurched onto his side, curling his legs up and scowling at the back of the sofa. This was—this had all been _such_ a strange night. Guydelot acting even more strangely than usual, insisting on going home with him, _kissing_ him—gods, if he thought about having his first kiss with Guydelot when he was drunk and whoever-knows had probably put him up to it, or…

Sanson shut his eyes tightly and willed himself to fall asleep, unsuccessfully. He would ask Guydelot what on earth that had all been about tomorrow morning. He’d have answers and resolution then. But first, he had to sleep, no matter how long it took him.

And sometime over the night, he must have dropped off, for when the waiting and stillness and silence was just about to grow unbearable, the next thing he knew he was opening his eyes, waking up at last. Rubbing at his eyes, he pushed himself upright, not feeling much rested and mostly feeling a few kinks in his spine and sore spots around his legs and shoulders from the sofa. Judging by the light, he’d slept past midmorning—usually he was a natural early riser, but given last night this was only to be expected. Now—Sanson stretched—now it was time to rouse Guydelot and ask him what in the realm last night had been about.

Almost as soon as he thought it, a part of him shied away from the idea.Now, in the light of the morning after, it seemed less pressing, and more awkward, but still Sanson steeled himself to do so. This was important. …If nothing else, Guydelot had _kissed_ him, and he deserved an explanation for that. Whatever that explanation might be—and indeed, Sanson’s imagination worked overtime with possibilities as he headed to his bedroom. With a deep breath, he knocked twice. No answer. After a moment, three times. No answer. Then three times, much harder.

Still no answer.

Exasperated, Sanson called “I’m coming in!” and turned the doorknob and pushed it open to see… nothing. His bedroom—his bed—was empty, and but for the rumpled blankets there’d be no sign that Guydelot was ever there.

…Well. Sanson had—he’d expected something like this but, a manic little voice in the back of his head was saying, he rather thought Guydelot would’ve at least slept with him first before running out on him like this. He stayed standing in his open doorway, mute, feeling like an utter fool. Probably—probably he _had_ been overthinking whatever had happened last night. Clearly it hadn’t affected Guydelot much, if at all. So…

Numbly, he shut the door. Maybe he should go make some coffee or tea or… or something like that…

He turned around, slowly walking down the hall, and turned into his kitchen, and—

“Morning,” said Guydelot, from where he stood bent over Sanson’s sink, mint leaves and a used chewing stick next to the basin. He waved, even!

“What.” Sanson stared blankly, trying to make sense of everything all over again.

“Rude,” Guydelot said with a little sniff.

“I—I thought you left,” he said, blinking rapidly (unsure if it was from just surprise or if he was about to reach some kind of emotional tipping point).

“I did,” Guydelot replied breezily, “but I only needed to get more mint.” He made a face. “Woke up and my mouth tasted like a voidsent sewer.”

Ugh. That mental image at least broke the tense state Sanson had been working himself into, and he finally walked in proper, sitting at the table as Guydelot starting chewing another mint leaf. “I’m surprised you’re up this early, after how much you drank.”

“I don’t get hangovers,” he said, after spitting the leaf into a napkin.

“Of course you don’t,” Sanson sighed. Infuriating bards.

“In any event, I’ll be gone soon enough,” Guydelot replied, momentarily giving Sanson a brief, frail smile that looked like a lie. “Just let me finish—”

“No, no,” Sanson said quickly (to his own surprise), “I—you can stay.”

For a few seconds, there was silence between them. Guydelot was the one to break it. “You want me to stay?”

“Yes,” Sanson said, too quickly, then cleared his throat. “I—I wanted to ask you. About last night.” Just like he’d rehearsed in the four or so seconds before knocking on the bedroom door. …Kind of like he rehearsed.

“Aye?” There was trepidation in Guydelot’s voice.

“I. What—what were you… last night, you…” Nothing like he’d rehearsed. “…I don’t understand,” Sanson finished, feeling like a fool.

“Well,” Guydelot said, taking a deep breath, “I asked you if you still wanted me, and you said yes. So I kissed you.” He wasn’t meeting Sanson’s eyes but very industriously was cleaning the sink he’d used.

Everything around Sanson seemed to be overwhelmingly, ear-splittingly silent. “Still?” he repeated, that one word being small enough that he could get his mind around it (the full implications of what Guydelot had been feeling were far too much, right now).

“You were so jealous—” Guydelot looked up and met Sanson’s gaze briefly, just long enough for his confused hurt to be clear to the other man. “On our journey. I had thought—I wanted to see if you still were.”

Stupefied, Sanson stared at Guydelot with his mouth agape. It sounded so much like Guydelot was—that he—that this was (and had been) a _love confession..._ “I thought you were drunk—drunk and just…”

“Like I said,” Guydelot said tensely, at last finished tidying around Sanson’s kitchen, “I’ll get the rest of my things, I’ll be going—”

“No, no!” This time, Sanson was standing from his chair, swiftly enough that it skidded on the floor, reaching out to Guydelot. “You can stay! Please, stay!” He faintly realized that he probably sounded like a panicking fool, but remained in denial that he _was_ one.

“Why?” Guydelot was giving Sanson a bluntly evaluating look—not, really, that he could be blamed for it, having spent the past eight or more bells, Sanson was realizing, thinking he was being jerked around…

“I just—It—” Sanson laughed quietly, a nervous, near-delirious little chortle. “I didn’t think you would feel… or in such a way…”

Now Guydelot’s gaze was sharp. “You mean…” he began, disbelieving, “you honestly didn’t realize until _now_ that I’m in love with you?”

“You’re a _bard_ ,” Sanson said, wringing his hands in a weird mix of relief, embarrassment, and nerves. “I thought—if you felt that way… well…”

“Well what?” Guydelot asked, leaning over the counter towards Sanson. “What did you think?”

“I thought you would… try to seduce me…” Sanson’s voice was small, and he expected Guydelot to laugh. But it was silence that followed, and that, Sanson realized, was _worse_ —until he looked up, and he saw Guydelot grinning, at once awkward and stupidly happy.

“I mean—I still could.” Now it was clear that Guydelot was deliberately holding back laughter, but Sanson somehow still didn’t feel embarrassed. “If you want to be seduced.”

Now it was Sanson’s turn to hold in a chuckle. “Well—well, how would you do it?” He couldn’t suppress his smile though. “How would you seduce Sanson the Stiff?”

If you asked him later, Sanson might have said that he’d expected some kind of flourish in motion, or flowery language in a husky voice. Candlelight, somehow, even though it was still late morning—or flowers pulled from someplace, perhaps. He _should_ have expected Guydelot to sing. Yet, somehow, he did not, and it surprised him when out of that smiling mouth came Guydelot’s lowest singing voice, throaty and with but the barest hint of a rasp, smoothing over the trembles and quavering where it was held.

“A lovelier man I never did see,” Guydelot crooned, so quiet that Sanson was sure that even if there were other guests in his home, if they were in another room they would never hear it. “Hear now my song, my love, I pray thee please.” When Guydelot turned round the corner of his counter, still holding eye contact, Sanson slowly and reflexively backed away—his instinctual politeness seeking to preserve their personal space; but in effect he gave the bard an invitation to advance on him, until his back was pressed against the hallway wall.

“If I wrote you poems three—” Guydelot’s voice stayed low, now close enough to reach out and—yes, and box Sanson in with his arms, just like he did. “Would you, would you, sit upon my knee?” He was leaning in close to Sanson, close enough that his breath rustled in the other man’s hair, cool enough that Sanson shuddered, warm enough that he wanted more. Insistently, Sanson craned his head and neck up, trying to catch Guydelot’s lips even as the other deftly avoided that. “If I gave you throne and crown,” he continued, soft and gentle right against Sanson’s ear, “would you let me pull your trousers down?”

Sanson’s brows knit at that—then his eyes widened as he felt Guydelot’s hands at hips, pushing up at the bottom hem of his shirt (it was already mostly untucked just from having been slept in like that). For the second of realization, Sanson shivered and went stiff and frozen—and Guydelot froze too, until Sanson relaxed with a tremulous sort of sound. Guydelot’s mouth was trailing down his neck as he slowly started to kneel before him; when he reached his collarbone he was singing into him. “Gods, you cut me to the quick—” he sounded almost reverent, then, until Sanson realized the only thing that could rhyme with—

“This is just _bawdry_ ,” he groaned, fidgeting with Guydelot’s lapels in his fisted hands.

“N’ it’s _working_ ,” Guydelot teased right back, nuzzling his nose into the dip of Sanson’s collarbone. He had pulled out Sanson’s shirt-tails entirely, and now was toying with the waist of his trousers in a very distracting way.

“Shut up,” Sanson replied, intelligently and patiently.

“I can stop if—”

“No—”

“—if you want—”

“Please, don’t stop,” Sanson almost whined as Guydelot took his hands from the front of his trousers, to gently pry his shirt out of Sanson’s hands.

“Never,” Guydelot said, roughly, into Sanson’s ribs as he settled fully onto his knees. Very quickly, then, he undid the laces and loosened Sanson’s trousers, pushed his shirt and smalls aside and then Sanson’s mostly-hard cock was in Guydelot’s hands.

“Ohhh…” He knew very well what his own hand on his cock was like—and he’d been aware that another’s hand would be different—but still the feel of a different set of callouses, longer fingers that moved differently and suddenly _harder_ —he wouldn’t have expected it to be like this… “Oh, Guydelot, that’s—” The bard pumped him, deftly traced and pushed at his foreskin and _now_ he was fully hard, rock-hard, dear _gods_ Guydelot…

Sanson only realized he was the one babbling when he realized that in a matter of seconds Guydelot wouldn’t be able to babble, that—that Guydelot was indeed going to kiss and suck his prick, and he stopped babbling long enough to groan from the imagination and the anticipation.

“Eager,” Guydelot preened to himself as he licked his lips, and before Sanson could respond in any way he’d bent his head down and his lips and tongue were wrapped around the head of Sanson’s cock.

“Dear _gods_ —” Sanson gasped as the head popped into Guydelot’s mouth, hot and wet, his tongue soft, his cheeks hollowed—he couldn’t help himself: Guydelot’s hands had him pushed and pinned to the wall, but he stood on tiptoe, the quicker to get all of his cock inside the mouth of one who, even kneeling, still bent to suck him. And it was rather rude, but Guydelot didn’t object. In fact, only a few seconds more and he’d swallowed Sanson to the base—with a pleased sound, even, as if it were his own cock being worked so expertly. Gods above, but that man would be the death of him.

“Nnn _ngh_ , Guydelot—Guydelot, please…” Once again Sanson was babbling, and he was aware he wouldn’t last (did anyone last? their first time? Really he rather doubted it) but couldn’t care. Still on his tiptoes, his hands braced him against the wall, and Guydelot’s hands held his hips firm and still, one thumb stroking his balls in time with how his head bobbed. Until—

Until his head was no longer bobbing but his face pressed against Sanson’s abdomen, and now (with what must have been tremendous effort, Sanson dimly realized) his hands were pushing Sanson upwards, until one foot left the ground and honestly this alone would have been enough, he would have been coming in seconds even if Guydelot hadn’t begun humming.

The damn showoff hummed a damn melody around his cock and Sanson was gone, fingers pressed hard into the wood paneling as he came down Guydelot’s throat, three quick spurts and a roll of his hips, then he sagged against the wall, the bard letting him put both feet back on the floor and relinquishing his prick. He was still humming, most pleased with himself, and he waited until Sanson, panting and gasping, could look down at him to make a show of swallowing the stray drops.

“ _Gods above_ —” Sanson croaked, unsteadily reaching down to stroke Guydelot’s ears and his hair. “That was…” He couldn’t find the words to finish it, but Guydelot gave it a try.

“Everything you’d been hoping for?” He was smug, and Sanson was not too lost in afterglow to roll his eyes at him.

“Not yet,” he said, voice low, and Guydelot grasped his meaning instantly.

“Take me to bed?” He had resumed crooning as he stood once more (the state of his excitement now clear to Sanson, who felt a surge of something like pride).

“What, you’re not going to carry me?”

Now Guydelot rolled his eyes. “It’d need to be the other way around.” He quickly pinched Sanson’s arse as he spoke. “Bit heavy for me to haul around… Not that I’m complaining!” He added quickly, noticing the look Sanson was leveling at him.

“I already knew I wasn’t a willowy, blushing maiden,” he murmured as Guydelot urged him down the hall, bending to kiss his head apologetically.

“Willowy, no—blushing, yes,” Guydelot said, pushing Sanson’s shirt up, his hard and calloused fingers groping over the muscles of his torso. “Almost glowing from the blushing, if I were to be—mm—completely honest.”

And that much was true, Sanson had to concede—as he staggered into his own bedroom, half-hard again with Guydelot unable to keep his hands off him, and red from ear to ear. Even Guydelot had a bit of pink on his pale cheeks, but nothing compared to his partner’s self-conscious nerves. Almost as if to hide it, Sanson finished what the bard had started and pulled his shirt over his head, discarding it on the floor.

“Gods, Sanson…” Now it was Guydelot’s turn to sound almost awed, sitting on the edge of the bed and—without further preamble—nuzzling his face in the center of Sanson’s chest, further lighting up his lover’s face.

“You—uhm, like that?” Sanson had meant for that to come out more suave and self-assured than it did.

“ _Yes_.” Fortunately, Guydelot didn’t seem to mind, as his voice was muffled by Sanson’s musculature—and Sanson didn’t have the mind to worry for too long, as Guydelot began to kiss, lick, and otherwise adore him, his hands on his sides holding him near, massaging up his back.

Now, Sanson supposed, it would be good to return the favor—he moved closer, resting one knee on the bed just next to Guydelot’s hips, then ran his hands over his shoulders, spread over his back, trying to listen through his heating skin and Guydelot’s low humming moans for signs of what to do next… Soon, his hands were in Guydelot’s hair, idly he ran his thumb along the rim of his ear…

…Next thing Sanson knew, he’d been pulled onto the bed, Guydelot moaning loudly behind him. Clearly he _liked_ having his ears played with (and Sanson had heard the rumors that it was so for most elezen, but he hadn’t known if they were _true_ ); Sanson reached behind him, fumbling for Guydelot’s ears to do it again and allowed the bard to finish removing his trousers and smalls as he did. It was the work of a moment to kick them off the side of the bed, and then Sanson was naked (yet Guydelot still mostly clothed), pressing and squirming against Guydelot, legs tangled, his head against the elezen’s chest, and his arse pushed _hard_ against the elezen’s groin, and _oh_ —

Sanson took in a deep, unsteady breath, but didn’t stop moving. Rather now he moved deliberately, grinding against Guydelot to better feel out his erection and if it seemed that size because of some quality of the clothes between them, or—

“My gods, you damn _minx_ …” Guydelot’s ragged gasping was, embarrassingly, the reminder Sanson needed that his partner still hadn’t come, was still on edge—

“Sorry,” Sanson murmured reflexively, trying (and failing) to reach around for an apology pat. “Is—is that all you…?”

“ _Flatterer_ ,” Guydelot wheezed, then with one hand undid his own trousers, pulled out his cock and it rested along the curve of Sanson’s arse and _oh, gods_ , it _was_ all him—he shivered and moaned, soft and all involuntary. “Hold still a— _fuck_ , please—just for a moment,” Guydelot said and his pleading sounded strangely sincere for the experienced one in this situation, Sanson thought. The elezen stretched out behind him, reached with one long arm and pulled his jacket from the floor. “You’re a virgin and—and I’ll need to prepare you…” Craning his head, Sanson could see Guydelot retrieve a little vial from one of the jacket’s pockets.

“—Nophica’s heaving—You actually carry _that_ around with you?” Sanson demanded, sounding more scandalized than the only naked person in a bed had any right to.

“Shut up,” Guydelot shot back, trying to at once open the bottle and spread Sanson’s cheeks.

“ _Bards_.” Sanson shook his head—then shuddered and yelped as Guydelot pressed his slick fingers against him. “Cold!”

“It’ll warm up,” Guydelot said, soothing, one hand working against Sanson’s entrance while the other traced over his belly. “Relax…”

He made a low whining sound but otherwise tried to obey. It was—a little strange, he wasn’t sure about this position—he hadn’t thought that he wouldn’t be able to see his lover’s face his first time—it was useful to think about this to try and stay loose as Guydelot’s fingers began to push inside him, but then, if he was going to be thinking about this—well, wasn’t it supposed to feel g—

“Oh!” Sanson almost shouted as Guydelot’s fingers hit _something_ , and jerked in his arms. Instantly Guydelot had pulled out, stroking his side, trying to soothe him, but— “Again. Again. Gods, do that again.” Guydelot obliged him, and once again Sanson jerked and called out to him—only the motion turned to writhing and the cry to a sustained moaning, as this time Guydelot knew better than to pull his fingers out.

“Gods above and below, _Sanson_ …” There was a reverent quality to Guydelot’s voice; distantly Sanson wondered if all this was turning out to be as unexpected for Guydelot as it had been for him. Surely, Sanson thought, surely Guydelot hadn’t been expecting Sanson to be this responsive, this squirmy, this gasping and moaning thing in bed, because not even Sanson himself had expected that. “Ready?”

“Nnnn—wait, wait.” Sanson pushed Guydelot’s hand away, then rolled onto his back, turning his head to see his lover, watching him intently. “This position? I—I want to see your face.” And now as _he_ watched, Guydelot’s face went bright red.

“Yes,” he said, very quiet, as he pushed himself onto his knees and levered himself over Sanson, who obligingly (if still self-consciously) spread his legs for him. Guydelot still had most of his clothes on, and for a moment Sanson was disgruntled—it seemed unfair!—then he caught sight of Guydelot’s cock from where it hung out of his trousers, between his legs, and worries about the bard’s state of undress fled his mind entirely.

“Ready?” Guydelot asked him again, softly; Sanson looked up to his face, swallowed hard, then nodded. He reached up to wrap his arms around Guydelot’s ribs as he felt what must have been his cock pressing against him; he held his breath as his cock pushed inside him.

Just as Sanson had heard rumors about elezen ears, he had heard the far more salacious ones about elezen cocks—that their shape was more pleasurable to take, that their semen had a sweeter taste, that they were _enormous_. And unlike the ones about ears, he’d quickly realized as he grew that there couldn’t be much if any truth at all in them—that the hyuran men who direly warned that girls who let elezen men fuck them would be ruined for mere hyuran pricks forevermore were saying far more about themselves than about anything else. But right now, Sanson could verify the enormity—and that talk of ruination made more sense than it ever had before.

“Guydelot…” His hands were fisted tightly in the back of Guydelot’s shirt, his knees drawn up high enough to squeeze the other man’s ribs. Gods—this was unbelievable, the stretch and the fill—as his body was filled so was his mind; all he could think of was Guydelot’s body above him, his big hands lifting and angling his hips, his face tense and tight and almost _afraid,_ like he could break him… “Guydelot—please, more…”

“You’re like a _vise_ ,” he muttered, pulling out a bit—but pushing back in when Sanson keened for it. “Gods—nnngh, you sure?” Craning his neck up, Sanson answered by kissing the tip of his nose. And though Guydelot blushed a bit harder, he tightened his hold on Sanson and said “If you say so.”

And he began to take him proper—steady and firm motions, such that Sanson felt the drag of his sheets under him with every thrust, and probably if Sanson had given him the chance Guydelot could’ve kept a rhythm like a metronome. But he didn’t, he squirmed under him, wriggled and twisted, pushing his hips up to meet him too soon, and lingering to grind against him too long. Sanson’s voice was tuneless as he begged Guydelot for more-harder-faster-itfeelssogood—and Guydelot muttered profanity under his breath and tried not to indulge him.

“My gods—my gods, Guydelot—” Sanson whined for more, begged, might’ve wheedled if he could get his brain off the thought of that cock inside him for long enough.

“You son of a— _Gods_ , I’m going—” The rhythm Guydelot had failed to keep fell apart right then, as he pinned Sanson down with his weight and just _fucked_ him, hips pistoning deep in and near all the way out, and each time he dragged against that spot inside his lover Sanson howled his pleasure, over and over and again and again and more, and more, and more until another climax burst out of him, dripping onto his stomach—

And only seconds later, Guydelot came deep inside him, hot and full and Sanson imagined he could feel it deep in his core, that Guydelot could even penetrate that far, because he was in a warm bed holding a handsome man and wallowing in afterglow, and such a thought, it turned out, pleased him in such a state. Guydelot collapsed next to him, boneless, and did not object when Sanson rolled over to pull him into an embrace (Sanson felt terribly empty now, and holding Guydelot was the only thing that could alleviate that).

“How—” Guydelot began, paused to draw more breath, then tried again. “How am I supposed to keep calling you “Sanson the Stiff” after that?”

Sanson could do nothing else but laugh at that.


End file.
